Mission of Honor

by Дэвид Вебер

  "By and large, I can't disagree," Theisman replied. "Still, as your Secretary of War, it behooves me to point out that the Sollies' value as an additional threat to the Manticorans has just been . . . substantially devalued."

  "So you don't agree with Younger's argument that the League's sheer size is still going to keep the Manties running scared of a confrontation with Old Chicago?"

  "Madam President—Eloise—let's be serious here." Theisman shook his head. "Whatever else anyone might say about Manticorans, they don't 'run scared' worth a damn. If they'd had any inclinations in that direction, the Legislaturalists would still be running the People's Republic, and the Manticore Binary System would belong to us. Neither of which, you may have noticed, is the case."

  "Now that you mention it, I had noticed," she replied with a slight smile.

  "In the long term, I'm sure the Manties would vastly prefer to avoid a direct, large-scale confrontation with the League," Theisman continued soberly. "They've already had a graphic demonstration from us about the transitory nature of technological advantages, and the League's so damned big and so damned rich it could afford to scattergun a hundred separate research programs into each and every one of the Manties' current toys. Eventually, they'd manage to duplicate them, too, and when that happened, Manticore would almost certainly be history.

  "But unless the Sollies' leadership consists solely of outright lunatics—which, unfortunately, no one over here at the Octagon is prepared to rule out—they're going to realize that for the next several years, any war against Manticore would be a one-sided massacre. It may be they're stupid enough to pull the trigger, anyway, but I seriously question whether even the Solly public would tolerate that sort of bloodbath for any lengthy period."

  "So what?" Pritchart asked in her best devil's advocate tone. "Who cares about a little thing like angry voters? It's not as if there's any real political accountability or oversight in the League, you know."

  "Not now, there isn't," Theisman said grimly. "But personally, I think the Sollies should be paying attention to more than just the operational aspects of events here in our corner of the galaxy. There's that little matter of what's been going in in the Maya Sector, for example. And then there's us . If you'll recall, Madam President, the citizens of the People's Republic didn't have any real political oversight, either. A situation which changed rather abruptly when the Manties' Eighth Fleet came calling and Saint-Just got distracted dealing with that minor threat."

  Pritchart started to reply lightly, then stopped as she realized Theisman was serious. Had it been anyone else, she would have dismissed his suggestion out of hand. Corrupt though it might be, the Solarian League was still the Solarian League , and the notion that the system which had governed it literally for centuries could be changed was ludicrous. But Thomas Theisman had more firsthand experience than most in arranging exactly that sort of change, and although he disliked politics, he understood them well. Not to mention the fact that he was probably the best student of history she knew. So if he thought the League might be that fragile . . . .

  "Well, I suppose the point at the moment is that what's happened at Spindle's going to make the Star Empire more confident, not less," she said, putting thoughts of the League aside for future consideration. "Since they've just demonstrated they have a decisive military advantage over the SLN, McGwire and Younger's belief that they're going to be even more willing to make concessions would appear to be, ah, ill-founded."

  "I believe you could say that, yes," Theisman agreed dryly. "Which, I might point out, is very probably the reason the Duchess handed the sensor recordings over to us. I'm sure she thought about that pretty carefully, since it had the potential to give us so much more data on their systems, but unless I'm mistaken, she figured that letting us actually see how effective their weapons were against the Sollies would underscore the extent of—and the basis for—their confidence. And, to be fair, the tactical situation was such that they really didn't show us a lot more about their capabilities than we already knew. I'd really love to have seen how their Nikes ' fire control would have done running the attack, for instance. At this point, we don't know whether or not they have the FTL fire control systems."

  "In that case, I think it would be a good idea for you to personally brief McGwire and Younger. I know neither of them's on your list of favorite people, but I'd appreciate it if you'd take the opportunity to lean on them just a bit."

  "You want me to do this wearing my military hat as CNO, or my civilian hat, as Secretary of War?"

  "Both, I think. We need them to be very clear on this point, Tom."

  Pritchart frowned and toyed with one lock of platinum hair.

  "Duchess Harrington's been remarkably patient about not bringing up that matter of our correspondence—so far, at least—but she's never pretended it's not going to have to be addressed," the president continued after a moment. "Personally, I think that, given the fact that we've already acknowledged we were the ones who started shooting this time around, she's been willing to wait on that point. I think she's been letting us wrangle and argue about things like plebiscites and formulas for computing reparations as a way to clear away the underbrush before she tackles what she knows is going to be the thorniest issue of all. For that matter, she's probably been letting the negotiations build momentum, as well, to help carry us past any potholes farther down the road. Admiral or not, she's got good diplomatic instincts.

  "Either way, though, we're going to have to approach that issue pretty damned soon. In one way, it's going to be a lot easier for Alexander-Harrington than she can possibly suspect, given what we think we know about Arnold's shenanigans. But it's going to be a nightmare for us, on the domestic side, and I want every member of our delegation to understand very clearly just how . . . bleak our military prospects would be if this thing goes belly-up on us."

  "And you think our two 'colleagues' are stupid enough to have missed that already?" Theisman sounded just a bit skeptical.

  "I . . . don't know." Pritchart's frown deepened. "I do know I don't trust either of them a single centimeter past his personal perception of his own best interests. That goes without saying, I suppose. But I'm not sure how good either of them is at recognizing the limits of those interests. Or their obtainability, at any rate. Frankly, Younger worries me more than McGwire. There's something about him, about his ability to believe he'll always come out on top, that makes me very nervous. McGwire's probably even more self-serving than Younger, if that's humanly possible, but I think he also has a more pragmatic grasp of the fact that reality sometimes has this unpleasant habit of being something besides what he'd like it to be. See if you can emphasize that to him in this case."

  "Gosh, thanks," Theisman said.

  "Consider it one of the perks of your position, Mr. Secretary. Yet another opportunity to meet the movers and shakers who control our political destiny."

  "Sure. Will Sheila object if I take a gun?"

  * * *

  Much later that evening, the attention signal on Pritchart's desktop com warbled softly.

  She looked up from the report she'd been reading—she was always reading some report, after all—and frowned as the signal warbled again. Then she bookmarked her place and pressed the acceptance key.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, Madam President," Angelina Rousseau said almost before her image had appeared on the display. "I know you're working, but I think you'd better take this call."

  "Angelina, I've got that reception in less than an hour," Pritchart reminded her.

  "I know, Madam President," Rousseau repeated. "But it's Admiral Alexander-Harrington, Ma'am. She says it's urgent."

  Pritchart stiffened, sitting upright in her chair.

  "Did she tell you what she needs to speak to me about?"

  "No, Ma'am. All I know is that a dispatch boat just came in from Manticore."

  "'Just came in'?"

  "Yes, Ma'am." Angelina Rousseau was an
extraordinarily attractive woman, but Pritchart hadn't chosen her as her senior aide on the basis of her decorative qualities, and the younger woman's brown eyes were dark. "It made its alpha translation less than thirty minutes ago and burst-transmitted an FTL message to the Manticoran delegation."

  "I see," Pritchard said slowly, even as her mind raced. Obviously, whatever was on Alexander-Harrington's mind, it had something to do with that dispatch boat. And if she was already on the com . . . .

  "Well, you'd better go ahead and put her through. Oh, and, Angelina?"

  "Yes, Ma'am?"

  "Give Sheila a heads-up." The president smiled thinly. "It's possible we're going to be a little late to that reception, after all."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  Rousseau vanished from the display, and Pritchart found herself looking at Honor Alexander-Harrington, instead, with what she hoped was a carefully concealed sense of trepidation. At least Alexander-Harrington's treecat wasn't close enough to read right through her pretense of calm. That was something . . . but not all that much, under the circumstances.

  The fact that Pritchart had discovered she really did like Alexander-Harrington—quite a lot, in fact—didn't make the Havenite president feel any calmer about having the duchess screen her so unexpectedly.

  Mostly that was because she'd felt a cautious sense things were going well. Given the tortuous and so often disastrous history between the Republic of Haven and the Star Empire of Manticore, that feeling that things were actually starting to work out had produced an automatic fear that another shoe was waiting somewhere, ready to fall squarely on top of her head when she least expected it. All of which which made Alexander-Harrington's abrupt request more than a little ominous.

  Sometimes it's hard to believe I first met the woman barely two T-months ago , Pritchart thought. Still, I don't suppose it should be at all surprising I'd rather deal with her than some of my own "allies" right here in Nouveau Paris. That incredible jackass Younger, for one. If nothing else, at least she has a brain that works. And quite a lot of integrity to go along with it, too, which is even rarer. Unfortunately .

  Left to their own devices, Pritchart suspected, she and Alexander-Harrington could have hammered out a workable set of terms at least a month ago. On the other hand, she supposed that after the better part of a T-century of enmity and two decades of actual hostilities, they were moving with blinding speed to have come as close together as they had. In fact, the only points still dividing them were that the question of reparations and that matter of the forged diplomatic notes.

  What galled her most was that it was Gerald Younger and Samson McGwire who were throwing almost all the grit into the gears. Neither one of them had been at all happy about being required to accept the "guilt" for resuming hostilities, which Pritchart found especially ironic, given the fact that they'd been two of Arnold Giancola's closest allies. And they were still trying to insist on settling the reparations question while the Manties were "still under Solarian pressure." Despite which, the president felt confident that agreement on that point—on Alexander-Harrington's proposed basis—was no more than a day or two away now.

  Which, of course, would only mean they finally had to deal with the prewar diplomatic correspondence, and she didn't expect McGwire or Younger to magically get more cooperative when that happened. To be fair (which she found extremely difficult in their cases), neither of them knew Giancola had manipulated the correspondence in question (or, at least, if they did know, they'd buried their connection to Giancola's thoroughly illegal shenanigans so deep Kevin Usher's best investigators couldn't find it). And Pritchart still hadn't dared to tell them that their own Secretary of State—and close political ally—had betrayed his oath of office by forging the Star Empire's supposed diplomatic correspondence . . . exactly the way Manticore had been insisting someone had all along.

  If she'd trusted the integrity of either of them as far as she could spit, she would have taken them into her confidence long ago. Now, despite the fact that she didn't trust their integrity, she was going to have to, and she dreaded putting that sort of weapon into the hands of men who wouldn't hesitate for an instant to wring any personal advantage they could out of it, regardless of the consequences for the Republic and the peace process.

  Well, Eloise , she thought tartly, it's not like you haven't known this was coming, now is it? That's the real reason you sicced Thomas on the two of them—to get them to understand that our collectiveposition's far too precarious for anyone to be playing personal power games. Not that what happened at Spindle's likely to make either of them suddenly see the light if the Battle of Manticore didn't! Frankly, I wish Alexander-Harrington would just go ahead and strangle both of them. I'm sure she could do it without even breaking a sweat, and I'd be perfectly willing to write out a presidential pardon for murder on the spot. Preferably in their blood. For that matter, she's got diplomatic immunity, now that I think about it. I wouldn't even need the pardon!

  "Thank you for taking my call on such short notice, Madam President," Alexander-Harrington said. "I know how crowded your schedule is."

  "You're quite welcome, Admiral." Pritchart smiled wryly. "There aren't many people on Haven who'd take precedence over you in my appointments book, you know. Besides, our conversations are always so . . . interesting."

  Alexander-Harrington smiled back, but it was an almost perfunctory response, without the genuine humor she would normally have displayed, and Pritchart's mental antennae quivered.

  "Well, I'm afraid this conversation is going to be brief," Alexander-Harrington said.

  "It is?" Pritchard asked just a bit cautiously.

  "Yes." Alexander-Harrington paused for a moment, then inhaled, as if visibly bracing herself, and Pritchart's trepidation turned into something much stronger. Honor Alexander-Harrington was one of the least hesitant people she'd ever met, yet she was visibly unhappy about whatever she was about to say. Indeed, as Pritchart thought about it, she realized the other woman was almost shaken looking.

  "Madam President, I'm afraid we're going to have to suspend our negotiations, at least briefly."

  "I beg your pardon?" Pritchart felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as that long-awaited shoe came crashing down, and an emotion entirely too much like panic surged through her. If the negotiations failed, if Manticore resumed active operations—

  "I assure you that it has nothing to do with anything that's occurred over the negotiating table," Alexander-Harrington said, almost as if she'd read Pritchart's mind. "I hope we'll be able to resume the talks sometime soon. In the meantime, however, I'm afraid I've just been recalled."

  "I see," Pritchard said, although, in fact, she didn't see anything of the sort. "Do you have any idea when you might be returning?"

  "I'm afraid not, Madam President. In fact, I'm not certain if I'll be returning at all."

  "But . . . why not?" Anxiety—and not just over the negotiations, given the other woman's apparent unhappiness and the sense of kinship she'd developed where Alexander-Harrington was concerned—startled the undiplomatic question out of her.

  "Madam President, I—" Alexander-Harrington began, then paused. She gazed at Pritchart for several seconds, then gave a little nod.

  "Eloise," she said in a softer voice, using Pritchart's given name for the very first time, "it's not just me they're recalling. They've recalled Eighth Fleet, as well."

  An icicle ran down Eloise Pritchart's spine. She'd actually become accustomed to having the Manties' Eighth Fleet hanging out there like some sort of infinitely polite Sword of Damocles. And at least as long as it was sitting there, like a spectator to the negotiations, she could be confident it wasn't off doing something else. Something neither she nor the Republic might care for at all. But—

  Her eyes narrowed suddenly as Alexander-Harrington's expression registered fully. This was a woman who'd faced death not just once, but repeatedly. The thought that anything could cause her to look this shaken was just this side of t
errifying. In fact, Pritchart couldn't imagine anything which could have produced this effect, unless . . . .

  "Is it the Sollies?" she asked.

  Alexander-Harrington hesitated for a moment, then sighed.

  "We don't know—not yet," she said. "Personally, I doubt it. But that only makes it worse."

  She looked at Pritchart levelly.

  "I'm sure you'll be hearing reports about what's happened soon enough, and when you do, I'm sure people here in the Republic are going to start thinking about how it's changed the diplomatic calculus. At the moment, to be honest, I don't have any idea which way it's going to change things. I hope—even more than I hoped before I had the opportunity to actually meet you, Thomas Theisman, and some of your colleagues—that it won't force Queen Elizabeth to stiffen her position where the Republic is concerned, but I can't promise that."

  Pritchart felt an almost overwhelming urge to lick her lips, but she suppressed it sternly and made herself sit motionless, waiting, her expression as tranquil as she could make it.

  "I don't have instructions to do this," Alexander-Harrington continued, "but before I leave, I'll have a copy of Elizabeth's official message to me made for you. In the meantime, I'll summarize."

  She inhaled again, and squared her shoulders.

  "Approximately one week ago, in Manticore . . . " she began.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  "So that's what happened, as best we can make out at this point."

  Thomas Theisman looked around at the other members of Eloise Pritchart's cabinet, and his expression was grim.

  "At the moment, no one has any idea how it was done," he continued. "I'm sure our current damage estimates are going to change—whether they're going to get better or worse is more than I can say at this point, but they're so preliminary change is inevitable. What worries me more, however, is the fact that we don't have a clue about what whoever did it used or what his ultimate objectives are."